The Colour of Ash
by Roselize
Summary: John takes his hand and slowly, gently intertwines their fingers – a tender mess of skin, sweat and blood. "Wake up, Sherlock", he whispers.
1. Mist and Mysteries

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the worlds greatest TV show isn't mine. Even more unfortunately, the worlds greatest, not to mention most brilliant and best looking consulting detective isn't mine either. **

**A/N I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing this. **

_His eyes meet John's and there is no need for words. A silent question, an almost imperceptible nod and the moment passes. Sherlock turns away._

"_I guess my answer's crossed yours". _

_He lowers his gun. For a second everything is quiet. Then the room disintegrates in a rush of light and coulour. _

That's the last thing Sherlock remembers. When he opens his eyes again he is perched on the living room sofa in 221B Baker Street, holding the bow of his violin in one limp hand. The instrument itself lies in the fireplace and casts a shimmering glow over the room as it burns. Sherlock doesn't care too much though. He's upset about the loss of his violin of course, but all he feels at this precise moment is an unspeakable relief, for John Watson sits next to him, alive and evidently unhurt. An unlit cigarette rests in his open palm. Odd, Sherlock muses. John is a non-smoker.

Sherlock scans the room. The flat is still an organized chaos of case files and empty tea cups. Nothing is out of the ordinary...except for the windows. For some strange reason, the windows are gone. The whole wall is gone. Instead Sherlock is looking out at the swimming pool, where once upon a time, a boy named Carl Powers lost his life in a mass of chlorine tinged water. Only it's not a pool at all. It's a river. It's the Themes. Sherlock frowns. There are voices in the wind but no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite make out what they're saying.

His thoughts are interrupted by the man standing behind him.

"Cozy, isn't it?" Jim Moriarty chirps, gesturing to the fire in the grate. Then his delicate, almost feminine hand flutters down onto Sherlock's neck.

"Hope you don't mind about the violin. It's just that I couldn't find any firewood so I had to..." his voice darts through an octave, picking notes at random "...improvise." Sherlock recoils as lethal, spider-leg fingers trace lightly over his skin.

"But then again, my darling", Moriarty continues, "I am rather good at improvising. I'm rather good at a lot of things. _So_ good in fact that...".

He pauses for a moment, leans in closer. When he speaks again his tone is a caress.

"...they call me 'the Napoleon of crime'", he croons, almost lovingly, into Sherlock's ear.

"I'll see you at Waterloo then".

"No you won't", Moriarty trills as he moves, no dances away. He spots John's umbrella lying in a corner and picks it up. "No one ever gets to me", he says somewhat smugly as he twirls it round and round in a striking parody of Mycroft. "And no-one ever will". Then the grin vanishes from his face and he turns towards the sofa, suddenly serious.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?" Moriarty asks and Sherlock is overcome by a disturbing sense of Deja Vu. The answer (_has he given it before?_) rises easily to his lips.

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

Jim smiles pleasantly.

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway some day," he says as he reaches into the pocket of his overpriced suitand pulls out a lighter. "I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no." Moriarty's lighter morphs into a match as Moriarty's smile morphs into a threat. "If you don't stop prying...I'll burn you."

Moriarty moves forward, match in hand and Sherlock can see the flame reflected in his nemesis' eyes.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," he whispers as he lights John's cigarette.

Sherlock suppresses a shudder. "You've said that to me before," he says, "in a dream".

Jim laughs. "You've got it wrong, my darling. _This_ is the dream. And if you don't open your eyes soon, sexy..." he turns around and leaves, not bothering to finish his sentence. Sherlock watches his silhouette melt into the London skyline.

"He's right, you know," John tells him. "Wake up."

"What happens if I don't?" The question doesn't seem particularly important but Sherlock asks it anyway.

Strange, uncharacteristic: John doesn't reply. How come? Sherlock watches him carefully, notices that he's trying to keep his face expressionless but bights his lip for a fleeting second before fixing his gaze on the fireplace. John seems determined to avoid eye contact which can only mean three things: 1. He feels guilty (improbable – no cause for guilt), 2. He doesn't want Sherlock to know (unrealistic – John is aware of the fact that all attempts at hiding information from Sherlock are futile) or 3. He can't take giving Sherlock the answer (more likely). So, logically it follows that if John can't face the truth it must be –

"Oh," Sherlock exclaims. "Simple, _simple_! Obvious! I'm dying". John pretends he hasn't heard. He's trying to smoke but the cigarette in his hand disintegrates, falls apart and his fingers are the colour of ash.

For several minutes, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches between them.

"You surprised me," John says finally, "at the pool. When I grabbed Moriarty and you refused to run."

A pause. "You should have ran, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugs. "You would have been killed if I had," he answers.

"I know but...still. I expected you to run".

Idiot. John Watson is an idiot. They've lived under the same roof for months now and still John fails to realize the strikingly obvious fact that Sherlock_ cares. _How could he not? He needs John. Needs his early morning smiles, his unspoken belief that tea solves all problems, the look on his face at the mention of danger. Sherlock depends on their childish squabbles about who will wash the dishes and buy the milk, the occasional brush of their hands as they examine evidence. He needs John because John is kind and quiet and brave. Because he is the only real friend Sherlock has ever had. He has a sudden, pressing urge to tell John this, but the words choke him, stick in his throat.

"Once again your expectations were wrong," he snaps. He can't force himself to meet John's eyes and why does everything have to be so frustrating? Sherlock opens his mouth, stutters, feels ridiculous and is about to plunge into another meaningless sentence, when John cuts him off.

"It's all right Sherlock", John says. "I understand."

It is then that Sherlock first becomes aware of the pain. It sneaks up on him, silently, stealthily; a mere ache at first that intensifies with each passing second until it becomes a crescendo that, try as he might, Sherlock cannot ignore. No wonder. The open wound that used to be his left shoulder screams.

There is a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson enters the room, carrying a tray of biscuits. "Sherlock," she says fondly, "the mess you've made! I'm putting this on your rent, young man". She gestures to the carpet which, Sherlock now realizes, is covered in his blood. "Never knew how to take care of yourself," she fusses as she deposits the tray onto the kitchen counter. "Always getting into scrapes. When I first met you -"

Sherlock stops listening. The pain recedes a little as a deep, delicious drowsiness smothers his senses. Outside, the evening sky darkens into night. Clouds, heavy with coming rain obstruct the stars, and the wind breathes ripples across the surface of the river. A surreal, tremulous tension stirs the air and Sherlock is convinced that London, shrouded in mist and mysteries, has never looked this beautiful.

"Now or never". John's voice is soft.

"What?" Mrs Hudson has left and they are alone again.

"You've got to come back to reality, Sherlock. Wake up. Right now. You..." John swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, "...you don't have much time left".

Sherlock doesn't reply. He's too busy watching the blood soak into his coat, creating a stubborn stain that he knows he'll never be able to remove. Pity. He loved that coat. But it's ruined now.

_Everything is ruined now. _

He doesn't know how he knows but nevertheless he is certain that somewhere, John Watson – the real John Watson – is screaming his name.

Slowly, Sherlock turns his head and stares at the murky waters of the Themes. It has begun to rain and for a while Sherlock simply listens to the sound of countless drops hitting the restless surface of the river. He closes his eyes.

"Now or never, Sherlock," the John beside him repeats and his voice doesn't break. Not quite. "Wake up".

Sherlock tries to nod but every movement hurts. Besides, he's exhausted, so exhausted he can hardly think. And the fire is very warm.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs.

John takes his hand and slowly, gently intertwines their fingers – a tender mess of skin, sweat and blood. He's sobbing now, very quietly, and Sherlock doesn't know what to say. Instead, he rests his head on John's shoulder and for a moment everything is alright. John may be crying, but at least he's here, safe, alive, breathing next to him and it's terribly easy to forget the pain. Sherlock inhales John's comforting, familiar scent – the smell of warmth, the smell of home. He smiles as John begins to stroke his hair.

"Wake up," John pleads. His hand is shaking. "Sherlock, wake up".

Sherlock tries to move, to wrench his eyes open, but it _hurts _and now everything blurs into a hazy collage of thought and pain and...

"Please, Sherlock. Wake up".

...and he will, in a minute.

"Just a little longer".

John doesn't reply. There is no need for words.

The moment passes.

**A/N All reviews – be they short or long, good or bad – are greatly appreciated. **


	2. Melting Glass

**Disclaimer: Even Anderson would be able to deduce that I don't own Sherlock BBC. **

**A/N This is the chapter that was never planned. "The Colour of Ash" was meant to be a oneshot. Nevertheless, for better or for worse, here is the second part. Betaed by the brilliant Sylvaine. **

John Watson is limping again. It's silly and he knows it, his leg is perfectly fine after all. Yet the pain is real enough, a dull, familiar ache that John's therapist wasn't able to cure in five weeks and Sherlock cured in under five hours. At the time, John thought it was gone for good but it returned the day they met Moriarty. The day John found out he might never speak to Sherlock again.

John drags himself into the kitchen, sets some water to boil. When he opens the cabinet he curses. They are out of tea. He grabs the jar of coffee instead. John never liked coffee. It's too bitter, but for now it will have to do.

They covered coma, briefly, at medical school so John knows several things about it. Like the fact that it can be caused by damage to the reticular activating system – the part of the brain that controls sleep patterns. The impact of a small, not even particularly heavy object can be all it takes to sedate you for years. For Sherlock, a piece of shrapnel was enough.

For a change, the cups reek of cleanliness. No need to wash out the remnants of chemicals or remove vestiges of decomposing flesh. John takes a mug and rinses it anyway. Just out of habit.

He tries to ignore the nagging, disturbing knowledge that the deepest level of true coma usually lasts from two to four weeks. It's been 22 days. If Sherlock doesn't regain consciousness by the end of the month, the likelihood of him ever doing so will decrease by a vast amount.

John mixes the instant coffee with a bit of milk and vast quantities of sugar. Then he stands there listening to the relentless ticking of the clock, waiting for what seems like hours for the water to boil.

Even if Sherlock does wake up, John muses for what must be the hundredth time today, it is possible and entirely plausible that he will descend into a continuous vegetative state. He will be merely partially aware of his surroundings and, to a small extent, respond to outside stimulation. This also means that he won't be able to move, to speak, to _think_ ever again.

The kettle is infuriatingly silent. John realizes he's forgotten to switch on the stove. Tired of waiting, he simply pours the water into the mug. It doesn't matter. Coffee is disgusting whatever he does to it. Might as well take it cold.

John almost gags when he tastes it, but forces it down regardless. The caffeine will keep him awake for a little while and reality, bleak as it may be, is better than sleep. There is no solace in dreams and John hates waking up from nightmare after nightmare, thinking he's heard the sound of Sherlock's violin.

He sets the mug down on the kitchen counter and checks his watch. It's almost three in the morning, too late to go to the hospital for a bedside visit. John hesitates for a moment, then shrugs on his jacket, picks up his cane and heads outside anyway, wincing with every step. The door creaks shut behind him.

The nurse on duty at the hospital promptly refuses to let John see Sherlock. The first thing she does is ask whether John is family and on finding out he isn't she launches into a tedious monologue about ward policy, visiting hours and other manifestations of hospital bureaucracy. John sighs. He's in no mood to argue. And as the nurse drones on and on he thinks that if Sherlock were here they'd be inside the ward in a matter of seconds. First Sherlock would march over to the front desk and demand entry, flashing Lestrade's credentials at her. If she still held firm the detective would convince her with his clever arguing, confuse the poor woman until she was too dazed to refuse. Or if he were in a bad mood that day, Sherlock might blackmail her, confront her with her secrets, deduce every shred of embarrassing, incriminating, _personal_ information and drag it out into the open until she had no choice but to cooperate. Or Sherlock would simply sneak in through a back door.

Then again, if Sherlock were here, John wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place.

It's ridiculous, the way John misses him. He's lost friends before, close friends, and it was hell each time. Yet somehow, death after death, John managed to cling on to his sanity. Now he's going mad. He must be. It's insane to miss anyone this much.

It takes him a while to notice that the nurse has stopped speaking. Instead she's staring at him intently, studying his expression. Her face is drenched in pity.

John turns around and walks to the front door.

"Wait!"

For a moment she fidgets, torn by indecision. Then she sighs and motions for John to follow her.

"Come on then," she mutters as she leads him to the elevator. "I might get into trouble for allowing this if the management finds out but...well."

"Thank you," John says. "Thank you so much."

It's a private ward of course, all expenses paid, courtesy of Mycroft. John enters and flicks on the light. It's too shrill, it illuminates too much of the room, which is too tidy and much too quiet. John can't get used to it, even after three weeks. He closes the door, crosses to the bed and sits down on the edge.

Sherlock's hands are burning. They are ablaze with cold – a result of poor circulation no doubt, plus the fact that Sherlock hasn't moved in weeks. His fingers are freezing, almost painful to the touch.

John doesn't let go.

Suddenly he realizes that he's terribly tired. The coffee isn't working.

He considers switching on some music to keep himself awake but decides against it. John doesn't think he can take music right now. Two weeks ago he bought Sherlock a small stereo and a CD of famous violin pieces. He read online that one should always assume a comatose person can hear what is going on, even if they don't respond to sound. Apparently, it also helps to hear familiar voices. Raises awareness, increases the chances of recovery.

John clears his throat.

"Lestrade called today, Sherlock," he says "Asked me how you were coming along. They've got a new case, something about a dead woman and a speckled band. One of those unusual murders. Should be right up your street. Scotland Yard is stumped as usual, of course".

Sherlock, of course, doesn't respond and John can't help but wonder if Sherlock will remain unchanged if, no – John corrects himself furiously – _when _he wakes up. He tries to feel comforted by the knowledge that upon emerging from a comatose state some people fully regain their former mental capabilities.

As he sits there, wiling away the hours until dawn, he tries not to feel nauseated by the knowledge that some people do not.

_Sherlock is playing his violin when John comes home – a fast paced, somewhat eerie piece. John can't remember what it's called. _

"_You're late", Sherlock says. His tone is casual, matter-of-fact. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago". _

_He stops playing, puts the instrument onto the coffee table, but the music still continues. It's lively, cheerful even, but oddly morbid at the same time. John doesn't like it. It sends chills down his spine. _

_Sherlock's eyes narrow, like they always do when he's thinking hard. "Why are you late?"_

_John grins, despite the ghastly tune in the background. "You tell me". _

_Sherlock looks at him, registers every detail of his appearance and John waits for the deduction with bated breath. He loves listening to his friend pull information seemingly out of thin air, then explain his brilliant thought process as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. John stands there, smiling and waiting for Sherlock to tell him that he returned from work at six instead of at four because Sarah stayed home sick today, and John visited her. In a moment Sherlock will state that John brought her flowers, tulips to be precise, that there are still pollen stains on his sweater. _

_But Sherlock doesn't tell him anything of the sort. _

"_Your hair", he mutters instead. "It's dry"_

"_Oh," John says, taken aback. "Is it? I-" Sherlock cuts him off._

"_No, John. Don't say anything. Deduction is not an art, it's a science and there's plenty of data. Your hair is dry, why is it dry? It's raining outside". Sherlock gets up from the sofa and the carpet crunches under his feet. John glances at the floor and notes that it's covered by a thin sheet of ice. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice though. He's pacing around the room, in time to the music. His words are restless, frantic. "You're home at six instead of four because you left work later today. Is that right? It must be. Why, though, why? I don't know. There's a light shining straight into my eyes, John, I can't think. You always walk home from the clinic, regardless of the weather conditions. Your hair should have gotten wet, why isn't it? Why not today?" He lapses into a tense silence that seems to last and last. _

_Finally, John speaks. "I took a cab back home from Sarah's house, Sherlock," he says as softly as he can. "I left the clinic at four, as usual". _

_The ice shatters, cuts into the skin of Sherlock's bare feet. Blood trickles across the floorboards._

"_Impossible", Sherlock snarls and it's nearly graceful, the way their lives disintegrate. Cracks work their way up the walls and John watches as Sherlock loses control ever so slowly, his eyes gradually unfocusing, every breath heavier than the last. "I can't be wrong!" he gasps. "I am never wrong! You're late because of...because-" _

_Ink. All of a sudden it's everywhere, seeping out from under the peeling wallpaper, forming black puddles on the ice. It oozes down the bookshelf, stains the surface of the table. John vaguely wonders where it came from. Then he sees the look on Sherlock's face and realization hits him like a bullet to the stomach. John walks across the room, picks up the newspaper, scans the blank pages. He forces himself to be calm, moves through the flat, opens drawers, examines case file after case file._ _Empty pages stare back at him. John drops them onto the ground. They flutter and fall down, down, down. _

_With a shudder, John re-enters the sitting room and the smiley face on the wall grins wider. Sherlock is pacing across a layer of ink, blood and broken ice and John can't do anything except watch his best friend panic, speed up until he's running in circles, round and round and round and round and - _

"_Sherlock!" John yells and the detective stops abruptly in the middle of the room. Minutes trickle by and the music, that uncanny, perky music, doesn't have the decency to stop. Sherlock stands there, perfectly still, and when at long last he speaks his voice is the sound of melting glass. "I can't do it", he murmurs as the floor gives way and the house collapses around them and John _

wakes up shaking and gasping for air...

_..._to find that the song from his nightmare is still playing. John glances at the stereo in confusion. Sure enough, the disk of famous violin pieces he bought is spinning away merrily in the CD drive. Strange. John is sure he hadn't switched the stereo on before he fell asleep and for a fleeting, insane moment he thinks that Sherlock must be awake, yet his friend lies as silent and motionless as ever.

"It's called 'The Danse Macabre', Johnny-boy," chirps an all too familiar voice. "It's one of my favourites! Gorgeous, isn't it?"

John gets to his feet and faces the man leaning casually against the door.

"Hi there," trills Jim Moriarty.

**A/N Yes, I really like cliffhangers. I also happen to really, really like reviews...**


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